It's Not About Control
by Crope
Summary: New Message from Combeferre, 3:05 "Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving." The idea of change is hard; not changing is harder.
1. Chapter 1

"You frighten me, Grantaire," he tells me, watching from the doorway. No one remains in my sight but him, backlit from the hallway, shadow blending into the darkness of my apartment. I say nothing, and he turns to whisper hurriedly to Combeferre.

I raise my head as best I can and listen to them squabble only the way people who have known each other since infancy can. With only their tones, hushed sounds rising and falling, I know what they are saying. 'We cannot leave him here.' With a wave of my hand, I scoff. "What's all this? Don't be ridiculous! Dear Jehan will be home and you won't have to worry about me."

I can feel his disdain, as mighty as the rest of him, as he tosses that hair from his face. That beautiful yellow; bless TRYP1, that allele which endlessly fascinates our Combeferre, our Joly, our me. Bless Melanesia, bless his parents for immigrating. His skin is dark, his hair is light, and despite all of D'Urville's speculating on the ugliness of the race, Enjolras is beautiful. He is enchanting. Of all of the countries in the world, France is lucky that he was born here.

"We will never hear the end of it from Gavroche if we do that," Combeferre says in his calm voice. He sounds as buttercups look, mellow and warm and creamy. His knowing eyes gaze out at me as he steps around Enjolras, dark behind his black frames, under those thick locs that he can never keep tied up as he would like. "It was hard enough to get him to leave as it was."

Another wave of my hand. "Then don't tell him. As far as he is concerned, you both sat with me and sang lullabies until Jehan returned, and they made us all veggie dogs and nothing is amiss." He would never believe it, my little apprentice, he is much too smart, and even if I did not know that, the looks these two give me would let me know. "Fine," I say in a great show of acquiescence - or as great as I can manage, laying on my couch and nearly pinned down by not only Jehan's massive cat Oscar but my own boxer, who is perched on my feet as if to tell me 'youre not going anywhere.' Hoisted by my own Cheese Curd. "Omit the lullabies, then. but leave the veggie dogs."

They share a look, the one that infuriates Courfeyrac, and I fear I will have to fight for the right to wallow alone. but they go, leaving me covered in animals and lit by a marathon of How It's Made. There is a milk jug full of water next to me, complete with bendy straw, that Combeferre insists I finish. I intend to - the guide says that the next episode covers canned onions and I am eager to see how they go from ground to can, but before one bulb is plucked or one long, swirling sip is taken, I am long. Gone to a hard day and heavy eyelids.


	2. Chapter 2

New Message from Combeferre 3, 3:05pm

'Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving."

I wake to light and sound and Oscar thumping to the ground, meowing loudly and insistently. That can only mean that Jehan is home, returned to our little apartment. With bleary eyes, I look at the clock. 4:15pm. They're home almost two hours early; someone's told them. I shut my eyes and make no noise at first, hoping to avoid the uncomfortable conversation for as long as possible. I can't stand the idea of Jehan's eyes pooling under their glasses, their entire soft, freckled face falling as I recount what I remember and what I've been told of the last 7 or so hours. So I feign sleep until they approach me, smelling of carnations and lilac and roses after a shortened shift at the flower shop they love so much. I hear them step close, hear their soft sigh, and my heart breaks for what I have done to them, what I will continue to do to them. "Grantaire?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here," I mumble, opening my eyes. They must be bloodshot - either that or I have lost what little looks I had since this morning - for they gasp. I reach up to pat their hand, and try to sit, but the motion sets my empty stomach spinning.

It must show, for Jehan shakes their head and gently pushes me back onto the couch. Their eyes dart to the water. "Drink your water," they say, tapping the jug with a loafer. "And I'll make something to eat."

"Veggie dogs?"

They shoot down my suggestion with a withering glance that is surprising from such a mousy looking person. "Soup," they say before returning to the kitchens. _There goes my hope of the day turning around,_ I think. I hear the sadly familiar sound of Jehan gathering my bottles from the kitchen; the is not the first time that they have done this. But this IS the first time I hear not just empty bottles, but liquid sloshing. Caps snapping. Corks popping. Tops unscrewimg. And more liquid, this time pouring. Pouring down the sink. Despite my lurching stomach, I pull myself to my feet (after yanking them free of Cheese Curd) and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in the doorway, watching them pour a fortune in green and red and amber gold down the drain without even the water running to mask neither scent nor sound. "I thought that you were making soup."

No answer. They just grab another bottle and slam it down into the sink. The brittle neck shatters and I praise whoever is listening that they were holding the thing by the body. They don't rush to clean the broken glass or the wine, expensive wine, or even dab the blood from a small cut I can see forming on their hand. They stand, solidly, silently, staring at the plants above the sink, the hanging pots and pans grazing herbs and leaves. And to be honest, I'm frightened. When Jehan is angry, truly angry, they are something to behold. But then their shoulders shake and I realize that it is not with anger but with sorrow. "Y-you said that you would be careful."

"Jehan..Jean..."

"You SAID that you would be CAREFUL! You said that you had a handle on this, that it wasn't that BAD, that you..." They whip around and thump an open hand against my chest. Despite how thick their voice is with tears, I am surprised to see a wet, red face. Their tortured expression is all I see, all I am. I barely register a second thump, but I notice when that hand curls into my hoodie - no, it's not mine. Paris- Sud is scrawled across my chest, and it smells slightly of mothballs. This is Combeferre's hoodie that Jehan is digging their nails, crescented with dirt, into, that Jehan is wrinkling as they mold their delicate hand into a hardened fist. And then their hair, long, a warm, chestnutty red, is all I can see. They have their forehead pressed to my collarbone, ans their weeping is so heartbreaking that I can do nothing but wrap them in my arms. "Even your embrace has weakened."

"Forgive me, Jehan." They tremble against me, as they did when Oscar was at the vet's, as they did that night they were mugged, as they did after every single beauty broke their heart, as they did after every tragedy in the world. Only this time they are trembling for me, out of love for me. We are not a couple; we never have been and we never need to be. We are strong enough, close enough, without the romance. Jehan has their many flings, but I know that it is the owner of the hoodie warming me that their heart beats for. Not that they would confess - at least not yet. That poem has yet to be composed. And everyone in Paris knows who I follow. There is no doubt that Jehan and I are soulmates, only of a different caliber. We are both romantics at heart; no romance needs to exist between us. There is no room. "I...I don't know. Things got carried away. Out of hand. I was too much, I drank too much."

They finally curl their arm about me, cupping a wobbly hand around my shoulder blade. "Gavroche found you." My whispered 'I know' goes either unheard or unheeded. "Gavroche, of all people, found you on the floor in a pool of your own vomit. Barely breathing."

"You've been talking to Combfrerre," I offer.

"Damn right I have!" The curse from their lips surprises them as much as it does me, I think, but they power on. "He texted me , and I called on the way home. He told me everything." Their face remains buried against me, voice muffled through fabric and hair. "Gavroche worships the very ground you walk on and he had to see you like that. Don't you think hes seen enough debauchery for one life time?"

That hadn't occurred to me, and that fact alone angers me. "Then we'll take away his key, is that what you want?" He and Éponine had both been given one, back when things were still ugly, their parents still in the picture. But once she hit eighteen and was granted custody of Gavroche, Éponine had given hers back despite protests. Gavroche had kept his.

"Take it away?" They pull away now, the fire in their eyes blazing. "Take it AWAY?! Why would I do that? Someone needs to watch you, apparently, and if that has to be a 12 year old boy then I will NOT block his access to you." Then their lips wobble and they throw their arms around me again. "I'm scared, Grantaire."

 _"You frighten me, Grantaire."_ His golden voice echoes in me, mingling and copulating with Jehan's whimper. I scare them. Frighten them. Something inside of me tells me I should just leave, remove myself from their lives and provide relief for all of them. But I smell Jehan's shampoo, think of the face Enjolras makes when he's trying not to laugh at one of my jokes, and I know that I never could. I couldn't leave Gavroche and Éponine, I could not walk down the street knowing I wouldn't run into Chetta and see what colour her hair is that day, wouldn't see Joly and make him laugh by carrying him across the street, wouldn't find Bousset in some jam and weasel a way of it with him. Life without my friends is nothing at all. I cannot leave them, as selfish as it is.

I pet their hair, then push them gently away by the shoulders. I bend down and kiss them softly on the corner of the mouth. "There is nothing to be frightened of. Here, let me show you." It destroys me absolutely to take my beloved bottles and dump their contents down the drain, but the hopeful delight on Jehan's face makes it a little easier to empty every one. I clean off their hand, bandage it with a Hello Kitty bandaid, and kiss the top of the bandaid.

I am unsurprised to find them in my room that night. They had me eat dinner, drink water, and that left me famished. My ravenous appetite seemed to please them, for I did get my veggie dogs that night. And a warm body in my bed. We had shared a bed many times before that, both chastely and not so much. As I said, we were never lovers in the romantic sense, more the classical sense. Our bodies let us bond, and as they move with me that night, warm and soft and fragrant, their tattooed thighs straddling my waist, I know that I have to do something. Their soft cries in my ear are both pleasure and pleading and offering and need, a great need. Need for me, for me to be well. I don't know how to be well, but in that moment, my best friend moving on top of me as I could see the pleasure swell with the red of their cheeks, I know that I will do my damnedest to learn.


	3. Chapter 3

That morning I wake up under Jehan to hear a familiar fluttering around the kitchen. Gavroche has invited himself over for breakfast. I realize that I'm ravenous, still, and I inch myself out from under Jehan to change from grey sweatpants to blue, just as worn and comfortable. A quick brush of my teeth and I move out to the kitchen. Before I even see him, Gavroche has his still too thin arms locked around my middle. I yawn and pat his head. "I'm alright." He still clings to me, and that this young boy who has been through so much can still weep (while trying to hide it) for me is touching. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," he says, pulling away to hide his face, as well as to get the mix Jehan ordered from some foodie packaging service or another. "You sit!" I chuckle and pull out my phone as I comply. Two texts, the first from Enjolras, which still makes my heart skip a beat. "Text me when you wake up." In response, I just send him a picture of Gavroche at the oven. The same picture is my response to Éponine, who sent the other text asking if her brother arrived. We only live a couple blocks away, but she's always on high alert. Not that I can blame her; she's done a lot to save her family, IS doing a lot. But Gavroche can take care of himself, and apparently me too. He's silent as he works this time, which is odd. He is either mad or scared. Maybe both. For the hundredth time I curse myself for letting HIM find me. I let him cook and soon enough Jehan comes down the hallway in their hideous bathrobe - they must have stopped in their own room.

They greet both of us with a kiss on the forehead. "Are we being treated this morning?" they ask, grabbing up the ancient teapot and heading to the sink. "Gavroche's famous pancakes?" That makes Gavroche smile, which in turn pleases me. "I remember the first time you made us those, or tried. Grantaire was all bloody knuckled from that match, I was sick, and sweet little Gavroche, no older than seven, came over to feed us." They pinch his flushed cheek and he whines for them to stop, batting that fluttering hand away.

"But they didn't come out right. Or at all!" I say with a laugh, which aggravates my tired abdomen. But I don't care, it's a jolly feeling just to laugh. "Hard as a rock, stuck to the pan! We had to throw them out, pan included!" Jehan laughs and even Gavroche chuckles sheepishly. it's almost as if nothing had changed, as if yesterday Gavroche had not found me just where he stands now, laying on the floor in nothing but a pair of jeans (that I realize now I was not wearing when I woke; someone must have changed me and I hope that it was Combeferre) and in a puddle of my own vomit. Bless this little child. This young man, I should say. Despite Éponine's best intents, I don't think our Gavroche has ever been a child in the truest sense of the word. Perhaps that is why we get along so well; even at age 28 I am the child that he never got to be. As he brings over the pancakes, I loop an arm around him and give him a kiss on the cheek, just loud and intense enough that his reaction - "Gross! Grantaire! Bleuugh!" - is enough to take some levity away from the situation that I know is on everyone's mind. But I know that none of the feeling was lost.

I walk him home to the small apartment he shares with Éponine and whatever small animal he is currently trying to wheedle his sister into letting him keep as a pet this month. As of now, I believe that it is a tarantula, and she doesn't stand for bugs. He wants a dog more than anything, and Éponine blames that solely on me and my day job. But what better for someone like me than dog walker? I enjoy the time out doors, the time spent with dogs who like to play (unlike Cheese Curd, who likes to nap) and the freedom it offers me. Plus, I look rather dashing with three dogs on each hand, if I may say so myself. Sometimes, if it's not a school day or he's skipping, Gavroche comes along and helps me. He always wants to walk the biggest dog I have, too. But today, even being Sunday, he'll be staying home. I need some time to myself. I rarely allow for introspection, but once he is safe in Éponine's care for the morning, and I've gathered my dogs for the first walk, I find time to think. First about the dogs - my Sunday crowd is mostly for older or disabled people who find it hard to walk their furry companions. I try to avoid walking dogs for anybody if they're able and home. It's the weekend and a dog's owner is their world. Spend time with your pup! I'm with Cheese Curd as much as possible, and even bring him out on some walks with the other dogs; he enjoys time spent with anyone other than Oscar, who is his constant companion and loves nothing more than lying on his face.

Cheese Curd brings up a completely new reason that I feel bad for letting myself get to that point the other night - he's my rescue dog, and he needs me. Not even Jehan knows him like I do. I can't just risk myself with him relying on me. Anyone else, I think, could move past something happening to me. But not Cheese Curd. I know I need to be careful. I do. But by the time I'm far gone enough to be in danger, I'm too far gone to care. Or gone enough to care too much. I can't say what happened Friday night, because anything after a dinner of pizza rolls at 9 pm is a complete blur to me. I know that Jehan is sitting at home right now, thinking, worrying, and I know more than anything they'll just be upset that I ate something like frozen pizza rolls for dinner. I can see them taking out the garbage, sighing at the box in the recyclables. 'There's not even real food in these,' they say, shaking their head. They mutter about me all the way down the hall. My sweet roommate. We didn't know each other at all when they answered my ad looking for a roommate, and when they moved in I wasn't sure if we would get along, but one homemade dinner and a movie marathon later, I knew that my first impression had been very wrong. we became fast friends, then soulmates, and when we started sharing our bodies with each other I can't even say, except that there has never been an ounce of discomfort between us because of it. If they find a serious lover who is uncomfortable with it, we stop, and were I ever to settle down, the same would happen. But for now, we are just, in Courfeyrac's terms, 'friends with benefits.' I don't know how he knew. neither of us ever told him, preferring to keep it as private as the sessions themselves, but Courfeyrac can always tell that sort of thing. He was the one who could tell when Bahorel's girlfriend had finally kissed him, when Chetta was pregnant (and when she suddenly, no longer, was), and even when Combeferre had finally decided to see if he was truly as sex-repulsed as he thought (he is). There's just something about the guy.

Too bad his powers don't extend beyond sex - I would love to have him look inside me and see what was in there.

I pull out my phone with a sigh after I drop off the last dog. It's been going off repeatedly during the walk, but my hands were rather full. When I finally take a glance, I am both completely AND completely not surprised to see I have exactly nine texts. Well, I would have pinned it at eight, but since when have gods behaved as human thought they would? Apollo himself was the first, in response to my picture of Gavroche with a quick "Good." Jehan asking if I'm okay. Combeferre hoping I'm alright, asking if I need anything. Then everybody else, obviously filled in rather quickly and very much without my help. Courfeyrac with a link to what I know is one of five YouTube videos that crack me up every time. Chetta with a picture of herself blowing me a kiss, background of books so she must be at work. Joly with links to lists helpful home remedies, Bousset telling me to just hang in there. Éponine to both Jehan and myself, telling us to come over for dinner tomorrow. Bahorel's thumbs up emoji followed by a smiley face. Then, just as I go to put my phone away, another buzz, from Marius, who we have not seen much of lately with this new lady that's captured every bit of his attention. She's a fine girl, too pretty and too smart for the likes of Marius, and I'm sure that we would all like her very much, if they could ever pull their tongues out of each others mouths long enough to hold on a conversation. I save each text, even the link to what turns out to be the most recent song from The Lonely Island, who I consider the finest musicians of their generation.

Even though I'm older than the rest, save Musichetta who is exactly one month my senior and never lets me forget it, I know that my friends are loyal and good. They come to my boxing matches, they keep me company, and they obviously take care of me. I could never hope for a better group. Which is why I send out a group text with a simple thanks and a promise that I'm doing fine.

Jehan is still in their pajamas when I get home, with lunch picked up from our favourite Thai restaurant. We settle on the couch, them with their spicy eggplant and me loaded up on Hoi Pik Pow, with a large container of Tom Ka Hed to share between us. We're quiet for a little, but I can feel them watching me, wondering. Finally I sigh. "Yes, Jehan?"

"...what happened?"

I look over to their curious face, cilantro stuck to their bottom lip. Their eyes are magnified by their glasses and I cannot resist them. "Nothing happened, I promise. I was just drinking." I take another bite but do not take my eyes off of them; I can tell they don't believe me. "I just had a beer with dinner, that's it. And then I was watching videos on my phone, drinking, drinking. There was no reason for it."

They sigh. "People don't black out drink alone just for no reason, Grantaire. It's not...it's not..."

"Normal? I hate to break your heart, pudding, but nothing about me is normal. But listen, you don't...understand it. When you're like me-"

"An alcoholic."

"When you're like me," I start again, ignoring their words, "you don't drink for a reason. It's not for fun, it's not not calming or joy-inducing. It's numbing, at least for me. It's just what I do. It's like breathing. You don't just think 'I'm going to get blazing drunk and make a pillow out of my last meal,' you just have a drink and another drink and then you're two bottles in and you don't know who you are anymore." I don't know how it is for other imbibers, but that is how it is for me, so nothing else matters in this moment. I'm not here for any great movement, I'm not here to represent all drunks. I just know how things are for me.

That doesn't seem to comfort Jehan, though. They push their food around, looking down. "I was wondering if it was maybe..." They flop around their spoon, and shift their eyes to the wall. They're thinking of Enjolras, thinking of Combeferre, thinking of the only thing this romantic person can summon as a reason to drink yourself into a stupor – heartbreak.

I shake my head. "No, it's not him. I told you. There's no one reason."

"That's scary." There's that word again, that feeling. "If...if there wasn't a specific reason, then...what's stopping it from happening again?"

I have to whisper "nothing," into my clams.

They nod. Then fall silent. I am glad for it. Their questions do not bother me, but the answers that I have to give them, obviously unsatisfying, do. I want to soothe them, calm them, but nothing I can offer is good enough.

"If he loved you back...would it help?"

I chuckle and tun my eyes towards the stucco ceiling. "I don't know. Maybe a little. But it wouldn't end my...drinking. That is something even he cannot do. He can't end it. You can't. Gavroche can't. I'm the only one that can."

And as they squeeze my hand, I know that they at least know that I am telling the truth, even if they don't like the answer.

New Message from Jehan, 11:19pm

"Can you do me a favour?"

New Message from Combeferre 3, 11:21pm

"What is it?"

New Message from Jehan, 11:21pm

"Maybe just drop in on Grantaire tomorrow? He has some walks

in the morning but nothing after that."

New Message from Combeferre 3, 11:23pm

"Sure, I can stop by before my last class. How is he?"

New Message from Jehan, 11:23pm

"Thank you so much. He's alright, I think. We talked a little.

I called him an alcoholic and he didn't get mad at me this time."

New Message from Combeferre 3, 11:26pm

"Well, that's progress I suppose. Don't work yourself up

over him; make sure you get some sleep and take care

of yourself, too."

New Message from Jehan, 11:27pm

"Sure, Mr. Up For 48 Hours At Least Once A Week. I'll get some

sleep when you do."

I get up and walk my dogs, Cheese Curd included for the first go around, then return to the apartment for lunch. I'll have to clean up and do our laundry, but that can wait until I eat. That's my usual schedule for Mondays, when I don't have as many walks to do. Tuesday – Friday is busier, and then a lot of Thursday, Friday, or Saturday nights I have matches at a not exactly legal boxing ring, and that's where I make my real money. Dog walking barely brings in anything, and I can make double what I make in two days of that with one win. Sometimes, despite Jehan's protests, Courfeyrac and Bahorel (and sometimes Chetta) often make bets on me, and if I turn out victorious, some of their winnings go to me. Occasionally, Jehan and I struggle to make ends meet, and they like to help. Of course, nearly all of us struggle, but the goodness of friends shouldn't be measured in money. I do pay them back, in dinners, in booze, in late night adventures. Not that it matters.

A quick lunch leaves me nothing else to do but hop into the shower. I'm finally feeling better, back to myself, and I sing a little song as I lather and rinse. It's a warm spring day, one of the first of the season, and I open the window just enough for Oscar to squeeze into the space. He likes to watch the birds, and even though his furry body blocks any breeze from coming in I would not deny him his entertainment. I run a towel through my hair, which could use a trim, and whistle the tune I had been singing in the shower. Cheese Curd follows me as I wander to my room and pull on my jeans. Before I can grab my shirt, however, there's a buzzing from our intercom. I go to answer it, and the woman at the desk tells me I have a visitor. I am nearly bowled over when she says, "Lucien Enjolras." And, of course, I let him up.

His stern face never seems to belong in our apartment, and I marvel at that as he sits not on the couch with me, but perched on the clothes covered armchair. He looks me over and I offer him a dashing smile. "Finally appreciating me for my beauty, Apollo?"

"I've told you not to call me that." He doesn't relax against the back of the chair; he never does. Only a few times have seen him do so, and the vision is so vulnerable that it nearly hurts me to behold. Now, however, he is as stiff as always, and I wonder how knotted and rough his back must be; to touch it must be to stroke marble. I doubt the man relaxes even in sleep. "And put a shirt on, will you?"

It is only out of respect for his dysphoria that I pull Combeferre's hoodie back on. It was a long time ago that Jehan mentioned to me a passing statement from Enjolras than sometimes even seeing a cis male's chest could make him uncomfortable, but since he has yet to do anything surgical to his body I still keep it in mind. "So, what brings me this great honour?"

Enjolras gives me his patented Withering Glare™ and pulls his long curls up into a bun on the top of his head. "Combeferre was going to come, but he had a TA emergency so he asked me to come in his place. You're breathing, I see."

"More clearly now that you are here," I say, a hand pressed to my chest. He just rolls his eyes. "I live, I promise. No need for concern." I wonder, I can't help but, if Enjolras came only because Combeferre asked, or if there was some personal curiosity involved, or even, maybe, some concern of his own. I will never ask, not if I want to hold onto my tiny glimmer of hope.

"As I can see." Another pause, more silence. Enjolras watches me and I can make nothing out of the emotion – or lack of – in his beautiful eyes. I can never read anything from him. I suppose living with Jehan, who is nothing if not an open book, has put my skills in reading people into disuse. Still, even the finest masters of literature would not be able to comprehend the meaning behind the words of Lucien Enjolras' skin, his hands, his hair, his lashes. He is an enigma past any mystery the word dredges up in the human mind. And mystery just happens to be my favourite genre. I am so lost in him that I do not notice him speaking until my name comes from his lips, sharp and snapped as if this is not the first time he has said it in an attempt to garner my attention. I blink drowsily, and he huffs when I ask him to repeat himself, but continues. "I said, will you be alright until Jehan gets home?"

I know that he only asks for their sake, for Combeferre's, but the words still dig their way into my very marrow, where they mix with myelocytes and normoblasts until they become all that I am. "Yes, my great caregiver, I will live thanks to the enormous warmth of your heart in paying me such a considerate call." I look at the clock on the wall, some hideous bird shaped thing left over from Jehan's chicken phase. "Shouldn't you be in class right now?"

"Why do you know my schedule?" he asks. "If you knew enough, you would be well aware that I have a joke of an Immigration class right now." And then I remember him complaining of his professor for that class and their outdated views on racial tensions between unnaturalized immigrants of colour and the white people in authority in most Western cultures.

"If you keep skipping these classes, you'll never graduate," I say knowingly. "You'll be like me, with nothing but my le bac behind me and no desire for anything else!"

I can see him rile, and I wish it were for me and not my dismissal of le bac. And, sure enough, he just shakes his head. "You know as well as I do that there is nothing wrong with le bac, and-"

"I know, I know, the failing education system and the unfair bias against those who not afford to go on to higher education for one financial reasons or other obligations and the idea of academia being the only measure of intelligence is ridiculous, I have heard it all." I wave my hand at him and I see that fire in him – he wants to debate, yet I am doing nothing but agreeing with him, and I think that leaves him stunned.

However, he leans his elbow on his knees. "...you really do listen to me, don't you?"

"My friend," I say, searching in hid eyes for things I cannot name and will never find, "You have no idea."

Then the moment is past, gone to the moments of yesteryear. "Well, either way I was not attending the class, so I said I would stop in on my way to Musain. Now I must get on, I DO have things to do today." Enjolras stands and shoulders his bag.

I wait until he has said goodbye and is headed for the door before I scramble up. "Wait. Let me put on a some shoes, I'll walk you to the Métro. I have to go out anyways." He huffs, but turns and waits. I move as quickly as I can to slip my sneakers on, grab my wallet and keys. I chase him down the stairs, laughing and joking for five floors, watching him - as always, a couple steps ahead of me, and no matter how I trip and fly down the steps, I just cannot catch up.


	4. Chapter 4

My bags back home rattle, more glass in there than I would like to admit to Jehan. I don't want to hide my bottles from them, but I will if only to give them hope. I repeat it over and over in my mind as I walk home. _It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them. It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them._ I had put away everything and just started laundry when my phone went off. Holding it to my ear with my shoulder, I pipe, "R's Mortuary - you stab'em, we slab'em!"

"Grantaire," Éponine sighs. Her voice is breathy and controlled, but I know she finds me funny. "Are you and Jehan still coming over dinner?"

"Of course we are. In fact, I'm making a cake for dessert the moment I'm done with laundry."

"You know you don't have to bring anything. Just that shining personality. And Gavroche was begging me to ask you to bring Cheese Curd." The affection in her voice is sweet; I wish there wasn't so much exhaustion behind it. The poor girl works her fingers to the bone to keep herself and her brother in house and home, as well as saving up to hire a private investigator - her sister and youngest brothers ran away before they were pulled from those monsters they call parents, and I know that she is desperate to find them. She's putting off school to save up, as well as her transition - though I think that she is doing that more to fly safely under the watchful eye of the courts. She doesn't want to give them any reason to take Gavroche away from her, with how closely they watch her after all of the trouble.

I promise her to bring Cheese Curd before we hang up. The laundry safely in two washers, I drudge back up the stairs. "Well, Cheese, what sort of cake should I make?" I ask him. He just lolls his tongue out. Cheese Curd has never been much of a conversationalist. "Do you think a rum cake would be funny? I don't know if Jehan would appreciate the humor." And if I did that, they'd know I have rum. So my joke shall go untold. I start up something chocolate instead, chocolate and simple. I like to bake. Nothing fancy, not like the cooking shows I watch late at night, binging on Gordon Ramsey and booze. But my creations still taste fine no matter how the look on they outside. It's nearly mechanical: stir, stir, sip of the glass I hardly notice I pour from one of the bottles under my bed. It's just a part of baking for me, a part of anything. Part of everything. One glass won't kill me, won't push me over the edge. At least not WINE. I might as well be drinking Juicy Juice to wash down my aminal cwackers before going nap-nap.

The kitchen soon smells like chocolate joy, and I can retire to the couch with a second glass of wine, and the bottle on the end table, to wait for the laundry.

When I wake up, it's dark. The lights and TV, which were on, are off, and only Cheese Curd is draped my lap. Once he senses I'm awake, he licks my hands and nuzzles that stubby face into my stomach. I give him a gentle petting as I notice voices. Jehan's, clearly. A glance at the clock - 6:17 pm. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. But someone else is here...Joly. Extra shit.

"I just don't know what to do," I hear Jehan say. There;s some sort of sound and I realize that the whole place smells like burning. The oven door creaks open. Oh - the cake. The cake I put in the oven nearly five hours ago. I feel like 100% pure ass, and it is not the effects of the alcohol.

"You called me," Joly offers. He's a good friend and human being. Some may find his idiosyncrasies irritating, but I think he's charming. Though his advancement through medical school, leaving him in his first year, has convinced him that he has more diseases than I believe even exist on the human spectrum, he also uses his growing knowledge to help us "as a preliminary, " he says, to proper medical care. Between his studying, his volunteering at the local free sexual health clinic, and his part time job at his campus health center, we don't see him as much as we like. And that makes me nervous. Jehan was concerned enough about me to call Joly over. He did not even use me as an excuse to see Combeferre. "That's doing something. I mean, I'm not a doctor yet, but you called the only medical help he'll accept."

Jehan sighs and I hear the clacking of Joly's cane, then the sound of him leaning it against something. He grunts a little and Jehan tells him to get off the floor. Joly makes a noncommittal whine that he only makes to brush us off when we worry over his leg. It never healed right after that crash, and it had always been weak before that. He tells us that it's more important to worry about whichever disease is 'plaguing the nation' that week. "Fine, Jehan says quietly. There's a grating, unpleasant scrubbing sound. Steel wool on metal. My cake must have exploded or boiled over, or something of the sort. Jehan makes a soft sound. "Joly. What if...that's part of the problem? I've stopped trying to convince him to get real medical help when he needs it. I know what he wants, but what if what he wants isn't what's...best for him?"

More scrubbing. "Un...unless he's in serious danger, that's a choice you can't make for him. If he's in a bad way and gets taken to the hospital, he runs the risk of detox and rehab. If he's not mentally or emotionally prepared for that, it won't help him in the long run and can even cause adverse effects. Some disagree with me, but I _know_ that if an addict isn't ready to change, forced help is not what's best for them. Generally, of course."

An addict. The word cuts me to the bone. An addict. Grantaire the addict. That's how they think of me. I don't know about that. Addict, alcoholic. Those are words for someone else. For my long dead parents. But not for me. I'm a boxer. A dog walker. An artist, when the mood strikes me. I can't stand the idea. I just have a. Minor compulsion towards drinking, is all.

For the past 10 years. It has never been as heavy as it's gotten in the past couple years, but this, whatever it is, has been going on since I my late teens. I drank before that, of course, but only a beer here or there or at grantedly frequent parties and visits to bars.

" - self medicating," Joly finishes saying, snapping me out of my reverie. "It's common amongst addicts, they have an undiagnosed or unmedicated mental illness - depression, PTSD, what have you - and what they're suffering through drives them to find an escape. Eventually the drugs or the booze stops being an escape and becomes a full force addiction, something they cant and don't want to live without." I curse Joly's mental health degree as well as his medical training. He, of all people, thinks I could have a mental problem? The man who had a cough for one day and thought he has going to die of tuberculosis might not be the best person to give out unwarranted diagnoses? For a moment, I think that he's wasting his time in medical school since he obviously has no clue what he's talking about and just goes around making vast assumptions. But then the guilt sets in. I'm only thinking these things out of hurt. I'm not some experiment to him; he's my friend. He just worries about me. Didn't he come over here, after all?

"I just wish I knew if I was helping. He needs help. Deserves it." They sound stressed, unbearably so. And when they start to cry, I wish that I was brave enough to just walk away from them all. It's the best thing I could do for everybody. And Jehan, sweet Jehan, wouldn't have to sit on the kitchen floor crying over me. They wouldn't feel like they had to come home to check on me, feel like they couldn't go out on their own without having to bring me or send someone to babysit me. They could concentrate on their poetry, on their window boxes, on getting clueless Combeferre to look at them the way they deserve to be looked at.

"I just worry about him s-so much.."

I can't help myself. It doesn't matter if they find out I was eavesdropping; I ignore my protesting head and body to push myself off of the couch. I brush into the kitchen and they both look up at me in surprise. Before either can open their mouth, I drop down next to Jehan, acrid scent from the open oven burning my nostrils, and bring them close to me. I wrap them in my arms and look over to Joly. His eyes are sad too, under eyebrows bushy enough to give mine a run for their money. I apologize to both of them, and Joly just shakes his head. "It's okay, Grantaire."

I know it's not, but I don't fight him. Jehan looks up at me, hair a mess and glasses askew. "I should be the one comforting y-you..."

"Don't worry about that, Jehan. Just don't. Why don't you two sit up at the table? I'll finish this." The inside of the oven is a chocolaty mess. What exactly happened in there? Jehan tries to fight me on it, but Joly catches their eye and shakes his head again. Jehan sighs but stands up, and helps Joly back to his feet.

Jehan's eyes are red, but the tears seem to be gone. It occurs to me that maybe they're pretending to be strong for my benefit, and that makes me want to slam my head in the oven door. "I'll order in some food, then," they say over the sound of the rushing water. Joly is washing his hands for the first time. He'll was them twice more before sitting down again, he always does. "Joly, stay for dinner."

He does, of course he does, that great man. We sit in the living room to eat, my phone in my lap after texting an apology to Éponine and Gavroche. Jehan said that he already had called them and made excuses, but they're no idiots. Talk turns their meeting tomorrow, what started as a few social justice minded friends meeting at a coffee shop once in a while and turned into a sociopolitical activism group that was granted use of a back room in the coffee shop one night a week for their meetings. They stage protests, do charity work, write petitions and letters to local and national government, and any other good deeds they conjure up. On one wall is a large whiteboard with their name scrawled across the top - Les Amis, followed by # _LibertéÉ_ galitéF _raternité_ _,_ which is even on the t-shirts Courfeyrac had printed up. Enjolras insists they wear them to events, and as their elected leader, everyone does as he says. The shirt is really just the icing on the cake of Why I Don't Go. I attend meetings, yes, but I have no belief in this change they all seem to fight for. This world's a shithole and a few young people with a hashtag aren't going to change that. But I do believe in their belief, I believe in their passion. I believe in Enjolras. I believe in him with so much heart that some of it must be someone else's. He is a true leader and I find so much joy in watching him work. And, I must admit, in antagonizing him. I love to argue, to debate, and I get a sense that he does too. Plus, I was friends with Courfeyrac first and he was a founding member, then when Jehan met them through me, they joined up, and soon enough they all became my friends. It is nice just to be with them, even if I just sit in the corner and sketch them as they plot and plan and work towards a better tomorrow. They are younger than me, but never by much, and as I have said before, I've never been very mature. They are good people.

"Enjolras came to visit today," I say. They both turn, share a look, and I point my fork at them. "Enough of that. He just came to check up on me, thanks to someone asking Combeferre to do so."

"Don't give me that." Jehan looks haughty, and I wish Combeferre was here to see them. Indignation makes them glow, makes them look even more beautiful.

I roll my eyes, fully intending on giving then that. I have to ween these people off of babysitting me. "I walked him to the train before he left an everything." I can see the unasked question in Jehan's eyes. _Is that why you were drinking?_ They still don't believe me. Enjolras is not why I drink; after all, I drank before him, didn't I? Yes, sometimes his cold treatment hurts, but I was going to drink with or without him. Was that admitting something? No. It was just the truth.

Joly sighs. "He's been up since 4, you know. I was up early too and saw him on his way to school. He said that he couldn't sleep. I hope he's not falling ill." His face spoke otherwise. For such a hypochondriac, Joly loves when there's someone sick to take care of. The week when both Chetta AND Bousset had the flu was probably the best time of his life – both his loved ones needing his care. Chetta vowed to never get sick again after that.

"Just like Apollo – up to see the sunrise and drag it across the sky." My voice is too dreamy for my liking, but I chalk it up to the roughness of the day. But he is Apollo, my very sun. Even his disdain brightens my very world. "You know that he never sleeps anyways, Joly."

He smiles, round cheeks crinkling near his eyes. "No, he doesn't. You are very right about that." It is well known that Enjolras is late to bed, early to rise. Unless he is at the podium, Enjolras always looks exhausted. I remember one time, when I arrived at the coffee shop miraculously earlly. He was there too, but passed out over a table, laying over his closed laptop and a messy tack of fliers. I want to say that I did NOT take a picture of him, that I was a decent man and woke him up, but of all the things I am, a liar is not (usually) one of them. So hidden away in the dark corners of my phone, the memory of his face, tense even in sleep, remains hidden away fr whenever I want to look at it and relive that day. Which I do, very very often. One time, when he was away for a week, I even set it as my background – at least, until Courfeyrac caught sight of my phone and teased me mercilessly for it.

Jehan reminds me us that a lot of us have trouble going to sleep when we should, and all three of us laugh. It's true – in general, we are a pretty sleepy bunch. None so bad as Enjolras though, except for Combeferre. That man would be up so long that he forget his own name. Bahorel had carried his limp and sleeping body home more than once. And, true to form, with Joly there, we talk far too long, he is there far too late. But even though it is past three in the morning when he leaves, it is with a smile on his face. Ours as well.

Wednesdays have been Les Amis night since the thing started up. Members have been known to plan classes and work shifts to make sure that they were free on Wednesday nights for this nonsense. I usually just sit in the back with a sketchbook or my phone, waiting for the end of the meeting so I can truly speak to my friends. Although, I could honestly sit and listen to Enjolras speak for hours even with nothing to do. And tonight I feel so dazed, so tired from the dramatics of the week, that I don't even interrupt. I just sit and listen.

At the end of the meeting, Feuilly is the one to interrupt me. I expected to see zir since ze hadn't texted me. Ze doesn't have a phone, ze cant afford it. Feuilly is one month free from homelessness, having finally succeeded in zir goal of pulling zirself up by zir bootstraps. Ze has been homeless since 11 - it's miraculous that ze ever made it to age 23. We all tried to help zir, throughout the years, but ze was too proud - ze felt ashamed, I truly believe. I can understand being too ashamed to accept help, and I know that the offers meant more to zir than the actual help. Ze would take food, let us buy zir dinner as much as possible, or even accept offers of clothes, blankets, or a place to stay on the coldest of deep Paris winter nights, but ze wouldn't accept cash. Ze worked – as a street artist for tourists, as a part time anything for rich people looking to pay under the table, and, we fear, as a part time ANYTHING for rich people looking to have a good time - and saved. Ze just moved out of zir car into a sad little apartment, but ze is happy with that. If ze is happy, then its all we can do to be happy for zir too.

"Hey, hot stuff," ze says, plopping into the chair across from me. "Whatchya daydreaming about?"

"Only your eyes." Feuilly and I love to flirt with each other; it keeps us practiced. Not that a grade A Stud such as myself needs practice, but it's nice to keep in shape. Others will play with me, but only Feuilly plays to kill. And Courfeyrac, I suppose, but lately he seems distracted and I can't quite figure out with what. I would think a woman, but she would have to be especially sunning to throw him off so completely. Not that I mind being left with Feuilly. Ze is a wonderful friend. I know, I say that of all of them, but that is only because it is an irrevocable truth.

"How have I not climbed right into your bed, with lines like that?" Ze gives me a wink, and I know that ze is thinking, as I am, of the night they did spend with me, during a miserable blizzard, and all we did was sat under the blankets, playing Battleship. Ze completely and utterly kicked my ass.

"Don't encourage him," says a beloved voice, as Enjolras comes to us in all the glory his 5'4" body can muster – which is more glory than a man twice his size could hope for. I tease him that what he lacks in height, he makes up for in valor. And I think that he likes that. Right now, he is all business. A pile of fliers, something that I know Feuilly zirself did, for they are things of beauty, falls on the table between us with an almost satisfying thump. Then an envelope into Feuilly's lap. "Thank you for these, Feuilly, they're gorgeous. Perhaps you could bring them around to the stores in your neighborhood?"

It stings that Feuilly will forever be more valuable to Enjolras than I. Just because ze is from the very streets that Enjolras is trying to save, because ze is connected with the downtrodden, ze IS the downtrodden. I am jealous of a person barely past being homeless, jealous of a struggle no one should envy, all because I wish, for once, to see Enjolras' gaze soften instead of sharpen when it lands on me. That line of thought makes me feel bitter and rotten – I know that Enjolras is not using zir and zir position, but. Something out of zir control makes them seem more in Enjolras' eyes. Something I can not attain. I have no worth in his eyes, I know that.

But that does not mean that I will not fight for it. "Let me take some, Apollo dear, don't pile so much on Feuilly when you have a loyal courier right in front of you. I'll take some and find places for them on my walks."

I can tell that he has no faith in me, but I take half of the papers anyways. I pass plenty of places in my walks where I could hang these. They are a call to arms, as always, this time for clothing drive. That is something I can support, better than anything political. This is just helping people. "Don't worry that handsome face of yours – each flier I take shall be pinned up with care. I am not here to sabotage, just to serve."

"You are here to mock," he says.

"I am here to kowtow."

Can he really not feel the fire between us, or does he choose to ignore it? His face does not change. "I better not see a single one in the waste basket," he says. I place my hand on the top of my stack of papers; as if in a dream, in slow motion, his moves to fall on mine. A palm sandwiched between parchment and ivory. His skin is soft, softer than I assume he likes, and warm, and my entire body feels as if I've been electrocuted in the most beautiful way possible.

"Enjolras, don't torment him, he'll do it." Ah, Feuilly! My saviour! My true angel in copper hair and golden eyes, beauty and honor all wrapped up into a statue representing all the grace of humanity! I could kiss zir! Yet their words do not keep his hand, that gently arching palm, those shapely fingers, almond nails, on mine. The air, though a warm summer breeze, is now bitterly cold where his skin leaves mine. Can frostbite settle in so quickly, just from the loss of contact? He moves on, he walks from me.

Feuilly's hand replaces his. "Why don't you come to get dinner with me?" ze offers, and I know that it's out of pity, and a desire to keep me from drinking. But pity is not malice, and I need to remember that. It's a hard lesson to learn.

A laugh rolls across the room, and I see Jehan isolated in a corner with Combeferre. They reach up, cup his arm, and Combeferre looks down bashfully. My glance moves back to Feuilly. "I could do that. And I'll take a look at that wobbly kitchen table while I'm at it." And maybe, Jehan could use his night off of babysitting detail to have some fun.


End file.
